The Sun and Moon Endure
by Willowmere
Summary: In December of 1916, Anne and Diana find solace in each other.


"The Sun and Moon Endure"

In December of 1916, Anne and Diana find solace in each other.

**A/N:** Merry Christmas, everyone, and a Happy New Year!

The idea for this story was inspired by the _Rilla of Ingleside_ chapter entitled, "Mary Is Just in Time," wherein it is stated that ten days before Christmas of 1916, Gilbert and Anne visit Diana, whose son, Jack, had been seriously wounded a short time before.

**Disclaimer: ** I'm just borrowing L. M. Montgomery's magnificent characters.

-**o-o**-**oQo-oQo-oQo-o-o-**

Fred Wright had met Dr. and Mrs. Blythe at the station, and the couple sat in the back of his sleigh. Despite swooshing runners, the doctor heard his wife sigh. He drew her snugly to him, a gesture no less effective in its silent simplicity.

Sunshine sparkling on the snowy splendor of Avonlea did not impress Anne Blythe. She did not point at roofs heaped with diamonds. She did not call out to glamorous hills appearing awash under endless sea foam. Instead, Anne Blythe groaned and tugged her scarf down to muffle sleigh bells—their tinkling mocked the symphony that chimed in Rainbow Valley whenever the Tree Lovers courted in the breeze.

_Will life ever be magical for me again? _

Her son lay "Somewhere in France"; Diana's Jack lay in a hospital, felled by a torrent of ammunition beside the banks of the Ancre. Europe, scene of her blissful second honeymoon, was a monstrosity—graceful architecture stripped to skeletal rubble . . . fragrant pastures reeking of many massacres.

"Oh, Gilbert." A forlorn face gazed up at him. "The world God crafted is crumbling to dust."

"You can't mean that, Anne." He attempted a reproachful tone, somehow achieving. "Our boy's sacrifice wasn't in vain. We honor him best by 'keeping faith,' for doing so will be the basis of the world's foundation."

"And that remark of mine was just another example of how contrary I've been to all Walter asked of us since . . . learning his fate. Rilla—_everyone_—must be disappointed in me. No, no, Gilbert, don't deny it; too often have I been dwelling at the very bottom of the 'depths of despair.' But I can't lapse, not in front of Diana. I'll do my best to combat the sickness that started festering in my soul that September day."

Gilbert kissed the weary brow, understanding all too well. While examining, prescribing, and healing others, he concealed pangs that ripped him asunder. Medicine to quell them was nonexistent. Nothing could be done except struggle to carry on as usual, upholding the logical mentality sculpted for his wife, the wife whom he loved with an intoxicating intensity that dulled his agony bit by bit. Anne confirmed her love for him with every glance, with every breath, or as she was now—with her cheek caressing his shoulder and her gloved hand stroking his—convincing Gilbert that even in the bowels of agony blazoned beauty indeed.

They had arrived at Lone Willow Farm. Fred bade the two go inside. "Diana's upstairs. She rarely comes down," he dismally informed Anne. "With all you're going through, I appreciate your coming—your presence will be a big benefit to her."

Anne walked hesitantly. The first opportunity to catapult to incredible heights of fortitude had been squandered in a span of idle misery. Still stinging with grief, could she possibly alleviate the suffering of a bosom friend?

A burst of wind sent the Blythes scurrying through the front door; within crept a chill just as palpable. Gilbert helped Anne out of her coat. She hung her hat and, wandering the house, recoiled from furniture edging toward her in an appeal for frivolous chatter. Rafters murmured with echoes of boisterous traipsing to and fro. The lone willow tapped at parlor windows, icicle-encrusted branches beckoning her to infuse a glimmer of joy to the namesake it had guarded unfalteringly through weathers of tempests and tranquility.

Pulling herself up a little taller, Anne marched to her destination.

Imagination compounded the burden to succeed.

-**o-o**-**oQo-oQo-oQo-o-o-**

Diana Wright—black eyes puffy, nose a striking red—tucked the remnant from fleeting schooldays into her pocket.

Knocks preceded a clicking knob. "Fred, tell me Jack wrote," whined Diana, slowly craning toward the commotion. "If not, I . . . Anne!" Lethargy vanished; in one leap, she had embraced the welcome manifestation with a tightness that confirmed the reality. "Oh, Anne, you're really here! Should you have made the trip? Are you strong enough?"

"Would my physician husband have allowed the trip otherwise?" countered Anne, adjusting Diana's crooked shawl.

"Fred said he was going to the post office."

"He did, after picking up Gilbert and me."

"I wasn't told you were coming! I would have—"

"Ruined the surprise, beloved."

Both settled onto a plush settee and a river of anxiety gushed out. "What am I to do, Anne? Whenever the phone rings, I'm half relieved and half terrified. Was there any mail concerning Jack?"

The ticking of a clock, hitherto unobtrusive, almost drowned out the response. "No. I'm sorry, Di. Waiting can mercilessly drag."

Pricking tears laced fluttering lashes. "The hemorrhage . . . weakened him further. He could be on the verge of—" Diana wailed and slumped into sympathetic arms.

Hadn't such violent anguish repeatedly exploded from Anne's lips not long ago? Rocking Diana, she sifted for the proper advice, having herself received heartfelt phrases abundantly heartless.

A passage from Walter's last letter to her emerged: " 'Hope springs eternal in the human breast.' How you and I reveled in that powerful prediction! Impatient with a Glen shackled in winter's vice, we'd quote it, anticipating the future transformation: monochrome vistas unfurling into a cascading carpet of emerald beneath arches of bloom. 'Hope springs eternal . . .' Mother, remember that often for me."

Anne looked out into infinite white from whence poked feathery green boughs belonging to dogged firs. "Jack won't give up, and you mustn't either," she said, turning from the bay window. "Didn't Gilbert and I witness him ward off a bout of poisoning years ago?" Diana's son must wrestle with Death's scythe and _win _or Anne's pain would be akin to a twice-stabbed wound.

"I shouldn't be crying," bemoaned Diana, shamed by the commiseration seeping from dewy gray eyes. "What is my sorrow to yours?"

"Dearest, don't draw comparisons."

"Why not? _I_ should be comforting _you_."

Anne brushed back silver tendrils straggling out from raven hair. "Our being together _is _comforting me, Di."

War had sharpened Diana's observation: the gravity of a military tactic could be detected by the tremor in a conversation, and the newspaper reported disturbing developments depending on the tiniest waver of Fred's grip on it. Studying the features inches from her, Diana pinpointed wrinkles etched not by the ease of time, but by the sudden severity trials inflict . . . trials like the one Gilbert had relayed.

Inside the ordinary envelope had lurked an account that sank Diana's senses into an arctic ocean, rendering her numb. Upon thawing, amid a host of intricate aches burned anger and terrible fright. Could bed-ridden Anne sustain the throes of losing another child? Recovery would be an arduous ordeal; Diana was awed at the courage to try. "My behavior needs to change," she announced, straightening and dislodging from the eerily narrow waist she was clinging to. "Fred and Jack deserve me to be the steadfast wife and mother you are."

"I've been far from that. But your situation forced me to remember my duty. When I'm back at Ingleside, I'll tend more to others, and that should leave less time for moping."

Moping, however, proved a heavy state to shed. The sun lowered. A hush surrounded the two friends stuck in the mire of their murky minds.

Quiet was shattered by a tentative suggestion. "Anne, maybe focusing on good memories will chase away our morbid thoughts."

Such an uncomplicated solution Anne had scornfully abandoned in past weeks. Good memories were loathsome reminders of their changed inhabitants: toddling boys twisted into infantries mounting the gruesomeness of No-man's-land; vibrant girls relegated to the sidelines of tortured tolerance; placid patriarchs and matriarchs—visionaries of what will be—frantic and tearful supplicants of the hour.

Secretly reluctant, Anne agreed, desperate to placate. "I'll hurry and make tea," said the mistress of Lone Willow Farm, removing a vase of brown and withered chrysanthemums crowding an oak stand. "I should warn you that there's scarcely been any baking and the pantry won't contain much. We'll have our portion here in my room, like we did sometimes when we were girls; I'm certain Fred and Gilbert will understand."

Anne's mouth twitched at the glimmerings of the old Diana.

-**o-o**-**oQo-oQo-oQo-o-o-**

Downstairs, the men had switched from international discourse to domestic matters. Exhausting the topic of the summer's Matheson fire, they moved on to the Imperial Munitions Board.

"Some are dubious of Flavelle," said Fred, "but no one can complain about the job he's doing."

Gilbert nodded. "Owen Ford knows of him from Toronto. He tells me Flavelle is rigorous in his goal for perfection."

Diana dashed in, uttered an enthusiastic greeting to her spouse and guest, and apologized for the late tea. Banging cupboards! Clattering china and silver! Kettle puffing on the stove! The kitchen reeled with a lively lilt!

Elation intensifying his ruddy face, the farmer leaned into the doctor's ear. "Lately, _I've _been scrounging up the tea. Anne was the cure, all right."

Worming qualms subsided; Gilbert finally partook of his glass of raspberry cordial. Although Anne had desired to come, the decision to bring her to Avonlea was ultimately his and its effect had been unpredictable. Yet kindred spirits were strings enmeshed—didn't Diana's mending signify Anne's progression?

-**o-o**-**oQo-oQo-oQo-o-o-**

Balancing a laden tray, Diana trudged upstairs. News a contagion in the rural village, the plight of the Wrights had incited considerate—or plainly curious—neighbors to their gate carrying a dish of some sort.

"I was wrong," Diana huffed, widening the door with her foot. "My pantry is a 'depository of dazzling delectableness,' to quote your description of Miss Lavender's. Anne, what are you up to? Is that the wedding present you gave me?"

A cherry wood case—medium-sized, with an ivory engraving of painted blue birds adorning the lid—brimmed with papers, several of which Anne was flipping through. "These were sticking out, coaxing to be investigated. You should have been a writer, Diana," she teased.

The unsung authoress placed the tray on a table and dropped into the bergère Aunt Josephine Barry had bequeathed. Warmth from the nearby hearth was superfluous to her burgeoning heat. "Aren't they awful? I kept my Story Club assignments just as we members agreed to do. Anne Cordelia found them on a weekend home from Queen's and relished picking them apart! You shouldn't bother with them." Amateurish attempts were stuffed back inside and typewritten clippings slyly pulled out.

"I'd forgotten most of these were published!" gasped Anne. Were the characters whisking off on adventures of romance and myth _her _creations?

"The years can never lessen their brilliance," praised the loyal supporter, bustling over a jar of someone's tomato preserves experiment. "Of course, I stored extra copies of your prize-winner. Did you find any?"

"Yes." With a glance of disdain, the creator of "Averil's Atonement" shoved aside a pink pamphlet version branded with the Rollings Reliable Baking Powder Company logo. "Here's a composition, dated by Little Fred: he was eight years old, and decided to write about—"

"Caterpillars," Diana said in a wry tone, slicing "war-cake," a testament to the adaptability of every activity of the home-front. "Who could have guessed a cake _without_ butter and eggs tastes delicious? Even Mrs. Lynde would have found its flavor satisfactory."

"You're right," said Anne, reverting to the former subject. "What was the clue?"

"His caterpillar craze was at eight. They were daily discussed and collected. The creatures slithered everywhere in the house." Crumbs sprinkled from her knife as she shuddered. The thrill of butterflies could have been done without for the sake of never dealing with grimy caterpillars.

"These verses are anonymous." Anne skimmed over the piece; the style was unmistakable. " 'Beads of Tempest' . . . is Walter's." Her murmur resembled a broken musical chord, flat and peculiar.

Diana's throat constricted swallowing tea. "He wrote that during the hailstorm no one—" Shrill sobs crushed the elaboration. "Forgive me," said the offender, putting down her saucer to cradle the throbbing form. "I was insensitive and foolish to touch on memories of Walter."

"You didn't do anything," blubbered Anne, staring down at the precious words through a screen of tears. "I'm furious at myself for taking everything for granted."

"We _all _did."

"When Walter was a boy," she continued absently, "visits to Avonlea or the House of Dreams were habitual, rarely asked about. I didn't insist he relay the details of student life at Redmond. I'm not privy to each task he committed as a soldier." The mother of the poet cuddled his literature to her heart. "I'm ready to gather whatever snippets of Walter I can. Please, go on."

"Fortunately, the hailstorm wasn't of the 'Uncle Abe variety.' Walter insisted on capturing his ode out on the verandah. Jack stayed, too—he was reading an adventure book, and the plunking on the roof produced 'swell' pistol fire." Diana paused to clamp down the lump in her stomach before smoothly proceeding. "The storm eventually worsened and drove them inside. 'The poem is ruined, Auntie Di,' Walter groused. 'I was cut off from an epiphany.' He was tempted to tear the masterpiece to shreds!" She fumed as if the incident had occurred minutes ago.

Anne gave a slight smile. "My laddie stirred a thousand feelings with his eloquence. Myra Murray said he captured what was precious and intangible; Mrs. Alec Davis, on the other hand, blamed his talents—or 'malicious intentions'—on the wretched atmosphere he was being raised in."

"That woman is downright mean!" Diana viciously plunked a gingersnap onto the plate Anne had barely sampled.

The latter, too absorbed with rummaging through the collection, opened an Eaton catalogue. Anne rescued the item that tumbled from the pages before it hit the floor.

Diana peered over and thrilled. "A snap-shot of some of the children! Aren't they adorable?"

"Rilla looks ready to scamper off—she can't be more than two years old. Jem and Jack are showing off a string of fish in front of poor little Nan's face! That grimace says it all."

"Shirley's pail is teeming with grubs. The one entrusted with 'grub hunting' used to dig for hours in order to have a lot. Sometimes, the rest of them joined and they did nothing _but_ dig for hours. I'm still amazed at the amount of fun our broods shared in."

"It would have been cruel irony if they _didn't_ get along." Indulging in a last lingering study, Anne was about to replace the photograph, but had a better position for it. "I want you to enjoy it often." And she reached over and propped it on Diana's dressing-table.

A feeble ray squeezing through a cluster of clouds aided in the deciphering of faded pencil. "Walter's companion piece to his 'Morning Maiden'!" In bold melodic accents, Anne recited "Evening Enchantress," enthralled by,

"Midnight tresses twining skies of amethyst,"

and the sound of,

" . . . mysterious mirth rippling in the croon

of seas that dance in the trance of Moon."

With the end followed a loud, proud clap. "Think of where his practicing was leading him, Diana! I'm not surprised Walter wrote this on a visit here. According to him, Avonlea was a goldmine of muses. He used to come back home, writing tablets crammed with inspirations. Susan grumbled that he sought enough ideas for his rubbish right where he lived and he needn't go mining elsewhere. How a part of me misses her scathing retorts!" The petty annoyances—the inconvenient dilemmas—the unfavorable and banal components of the family normality—had been elevated by tragedy and were as relics in a holy shrine.

"Odd how the merest things come back to us in times of need."

"Or _we_ come back to the merest things unaware we need them," said Anne softly from a place deep inward.

"Minnie May had dropped in when Walter wrote 'Evening Enchantress,' and in her opinion, a few parts described _me_. Nonsense!" decried the sister of the flatterer, fidgeting and splashing tea in her lap. "Honestly, what a mess I'm making. I can't spill anything anymore without harking back to the gravy I tipped over into your plate at that banquet in Summerside. And _you_ were the one for scrapes!"

Anne was startled by her own short, frail laugh—she hadn't expected to remember _how _to laugh. She grasped the outstretched hand. "I was barring good memories, Diana, but it was_ I _who was warping them into unpleasantness. Our reminiscing . . . our _chumminess . . . _has patched up something within myself that I thought was broken to the core. With the war claiming innumerable souls and damaging so many others, I've wondered more than once why we were involved in this calamity. Then I'm immediately angry with myself for trivializing our purpose and the bravery of those who participate."

"I'm sure everyone's doubted the war at some point," Diana sighed. "Thank goodness most of us retain our better judgment and don't stoop to the actions of Josie Pye Mason _Sloane_." Josie had forsaken her girlhood principle deeming Sloanes unworthy of Pyes, an interminable period of widowhood having been sufficient qualification. "Nathaniel Sloane should have heeded the objections of his kin instead of presuming he could sweeten Josie's temperament by marrying her. She's a disgrace to the war effort."

"Josie!" A once-broken ankle was rubbed subconsciously. "What crime has she committed now?"

"Her able-bodied son is loafing about the Island; she demanded her Laurence stay put. Little Fred was absolutely boiling when he was _turned down_ for active service. The Pyes do everything in their power to dodge the troubles of this world," Diana remarked with an envious scowl.

"Troubles shouldn't be dodged at the risk of a troubled conscience." Anne rose to rub the frosted pane. "Your spare room might be occupied a little longer, Di."

"Certain people were forecasting a green Christmas earlier in the week," scoffed Diana, squinting into the thickening sky. "We could be in for another blizzard."

"At least Susan has Rilla with her to handle Christmas preparations. My daughter isn't a 'lily of the field' anymore. She works as hard and persistently as Nan and Di." Regret bruised the boast, Rilla's maturity having been shaped by the adversities pounded against her. "Regardless, there won't be much of a holiday to prepare for with our Walter—"Anne temporarily strained for air "—far from us." Never had she _said _Walter died; the definitiveness springing from a vocal admission would bleed worse than the knowledge itself.

Diana tangled her fingers together. Offspring flourishing seemed madly impossible. Over on foreign soil was a cycle of grisly clashes and stomped dreams. What if her Jack . . .?

Where would speculating lead but down a grim and errant road? Diana chose a productive avenue. Anne, fumbling in a labyrinth of bereavement, required a guide to drag her from dangerously spiraling downward. Assuming the role, Diana offered a few objects from Walter tenderly kept: knickknacks sweetly picked out for her—poems of his especially admired—charcoal scribbles performed as a tot when sketching with words was an outlet undiscovered.

"Darling Diana! You loved him very much, too. Saying I was ready to gather snippets of Walter wasn't implying physical fragments."

"Let me do what little I can," she begged, voice quivering. "I hate that I didn't come when Gilbert asked."

Gray eyes flared into green sparks. "I won't stand you having an ounce of guilt! You were afflicted with lumbago. Didn't my response to your letter assure you of the miracle you worked? I wasn't as afraid to meet the days ahead. Remember I also had your lock of hair to take out and hold on to."

"It must be as ragged as what I was holding onto earlier . . . speaking of which . . ." From her pocket, Diana revealed a blotchy note delivered to her by clamoring classmates in an age lang syne. "My searching for this was the reason the chest was such a mess. 'Our spirits can commune' . . . I had been fixating on that line right before you walked through the door, and it was as if my yearning had ushered you in."

Eagerly, Anne unfolded the symbol of devotion between two little girls bitterly separated. "I was bouncing in my desk, excited that you had communicated to me—with a note I still have, too, by the way. The nights I spent wrestling with my mistake! I avoided the sight of raspberry cordial and red currant wine for quite some time due to the images of your drunkenness they conjured up."

"Then everything was settled with Mother, our relationship blossomed, and the whole affair seems like a blessing in disguise. We wouldn't have received our treasures, trifles to others."

" 'Think naught a trifle, though it small appear,' " quoted Anne, returning the crinkled message. "During crises or celebrations, I've held my homemade necklace, and we didn't seem far apart."

Diana clutched the memento as daylight finally succumbed to gloomy shadows. "Yes, being apart is horrible." She pocketed it again, her countenance a cameo of alabaster against a jet background.

"Promise not to be consumed by brooding when I leave, Diana. To have you keeping faith sixty miles away will bolster me immensely."

"Any challenge can be met more easily because of your influence. I solemnly swear to be braver henceforth." The confidence blaring in the statement added a flush to her ghostly complexion. She ignited a lamp, shaking her head with a fond smile. "We're certainly experts at solemnly vowing."

" 'As long as the sun and moon shall endure'—our very first oath shifted two destinies into one eternal harmony." Drawing the curtain farther back, Anne throbbed with a lustrous fire that burned on her tongue. "Early darkness has covered their ritual, yet sun will set and moon will rise nevertheless. What a satisfaction it is that no cataclysm on earth or fury in the heavens can ravage those ethereal spheres! They have reigned and will forever reign throughout the millenniums of mankind."

"I have gooseflesh!" said Diana, wriggling from the jolt rolling over her. "You make it so easy to see the miracles that abound in everyday routines. I should write to Jack this instant and impart just a fraction of your attitude." She stiffened, stunned by a realization. "Oh, Anne, I've been dreadfully selfish! In fretting over Jack, I've neglected to send him letters as often as I should. It's true: Jack _won't _give up. I must _show _him I won't either. Now, more than ever, he's relying on me to uplift him."

So, too, did the one who spoke the consolation tingle with the conviction that had rumbled and burst from her like lava surging out of a dormant volcano. Retrieving the sheets from her son she had left out, Anne knelt on the braided rug, draining the essence of every line—the grandeur, virtue, and emotions of life reflected in neatly penned strokes. No, Walter would not want her blind to the magic that flickered before her in the cold, colorless haze of mourning.

"You'll keep whatever was Walter's as a gift, not as a penance," Diana ordered, sitting on the ground and easing the dainty wedding present between them. "We'll sort in here first."

"Am I to cruelly leave you nothing of his, Diana?" inquired Anne with a disapproving frown.

"Well, his papers undeniably belong to you: I'll have no excuses for refusing."

Neither noticed the rough jostling the dainty wedding present received in Anne's haste to hug her bosomest of friends. But high above, both firmly felt sun ceding to moon, and moon begin climbing her starry path.

**The End**

**A/N:** Thank you for taking the time to read this; I hope you enjoyed it. And if you choose to review, I'd like to thank you again: Thank you!


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